Say It - Curly Shepard
by Thatwasthen
Summary: The revision of Hoodlum Tragedies. "Our children get turned into little monsters. But who's to blame?"


Be My Baby- The Ronnettes

"Help me!" She screamed as if she were some mad woman. Her face was wet and stained with a mixture of hot tears and itchy blood. "Somebody fucking help me! He's been shot!"

Perhaps she _was_ a mad woman, maybe even borderline insane. The events that had taken place surpassed her worst nightmare. Her childhood trauma couldn't even compare to the foreign feeling she felt in her chest. She was absolutely terrified.

"Ma'am calm down. Do you hear me? Is this your blood? Are you injured?" The nurse asked with an unusual amount of patience.

Had their girl not been so delirious, she wouldn't slapped that stupid look off the nurses face.

"Are you fucking deaf?! No it's not my goddamn blood! He's been shot!" the girl cried again as she reached out her bloody hands to the nurses shoulders, staining her uniform a bright red as she shook her.

"We need to assess the situation ma'am. What happened? Where is he?"

"He's- he's outside." The girl managed to say before her breath became hard to catch, her chest tightening uncomfortably.

Panic. She was panicking. She couldn't breathe fast enough and he was minutes away from death. Death was knocking at his door but nothing was being done to save him.

"You-" She managed to get out, falling to her knees as tears streamed out of her eyes like waterfalls. "You-you.. Have to- h-help him." She said through hyperventilating, her close closing as she collapsed on the floor and everything going dark.

 _ **Spring 1968**_

"Do you ever think about leaving?"

He was taken aback when she asked. They had been sitting on the hood of his car watching the sunset, smoking cigarettes and drinking cokes in the parking lot of Fernando's Grocery.

"Hm?" Curly asked, taking a drag on his cigarette and turning to look at the girl beside him.

Diane Johnson. Also called Baby by anybody and everybody who knew her. And she was the love of Curly's life. He would probably _never_ admit that to anyone but it was one of things he had be sure about. He had fallen in love with her the first time he set his eyes on her. He had been a scrawny, snotty nosed shit, his small hand snatched up by his Mother's as she pulled him along on the sidewalk to make the morning service at Church.

He could still remember, clear as day. She had been on the opposite street, her too holding her mother's hand. Her brown eyes shining like pools of honey in the bright Sunday morning sun, her pigtails swinging as she matched her strides to her mother. He damn near tried over his untied shoelaces trying to catch another glimpse of her, craning his neck to see passed his Abuela's floral dress.

He pined after he for years. He found himself volunteering for bible study, despite the fact that her Church was across the street and he was Catholic and she was Baptist. He'd beg his Abuela to take him along to the Women's Mission Society, just so he could sit on the front steps for hours trying to catch a glimpse of her, too scared he would miss something if he moved position.

He spent years waving at her from a distance, behind the back of her tight-lipped mother and settling for short conversations whenever he could catch her. He still made the effort to see her, even after his Abuela died and he no longer attended church. By the time he was thirteen and reached his first growth spurt, finally growing passed 5'4", he gathered to confidence to ask her out.

She politely declined and told him that she wasn't allowed to date. That if it weren't her mother, then it was her big brother Willy. Willy Johnson was a Brumley Boy Legacy, his father too had been a legacy. He was stiff and the definition of overprotective. The amount of dirty looks and flipped bird signals he received from Willy Johnson would amount to millions had it been currency. But nevertheless, he continued to persist. Until the day after his fifteenth birthday and she told him that a date could be his gift.

He had been mistaken to think that he was in love before. It wasn't until that night that he had been sure he had. She had been the most sweetest and gentle soul that he had ever met. She was smart, calm, and rational with a sort of innocence that lingered around her despite the circumstances of their neighborhood. Though, it was a given they had split up a few times. With Curly being a dumb and immature boy, there were times he wasn't capable of maintaining a relationship. He found out that early on, regardless of who he was seeing or if they were together or not, he held an immense sort of love for her that would never face.

"What do you mean?"

Her face scrunched for a minute as she looked up at the sky and then back down to her shoes. "Like this." She sighed, expanding her arms of emphasis. "The town, this lifestyle, y'know?"

It would be a lie to say that he hadn't considered it. That he hadn't thought of a life without gangbanging and drugging. But it would be foolish of him to think there was anything else for him. This was what he knew. It was embedded in his makeup from the day he was born. It was a given that he would be apart of the Families Business and eventually aid his brother with taking over it. He learned early on that there was no other option. So there was no point in getting his hopes up discussing a life he could only dream about.

He set the coke down on the hood of the car and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, a stiff chuckle rising as he tried to play it off. But the uneasiness in his stomach taunted him. "You think too much, Baby. Just enjoy the present. Which is us."

"I thought you said you liked it when I thought too much." she teased, shoulders relaxing as she leaned into his hold.

"Hmm, you're right. But enjoy the moment for now."

"Santo Shepard... you're a menace."

* * *

" _Mierda_." Curly groaned as he sat in the driver's seat next. "This isn't how I wanted to spend my Friday night."

He sat back in the drivers seat, hand coming up to massage his sore eyes and rest them from the intense staring he had been doing at the back of Tiber Street Liquor store. Curly overheard his tios earlier in the day, the group of men not knowing Curly just walked in the house. They were expressing their doubts and insisting that Tim was coddling him and that he needed to pull his weight too.

"Cristo." Tim groaned as he rubbed at his eyes. He had a habit of doing that when he wasn't particularly interested or he was irritated. Curly had seen that look too many times to count throughout his childhood during forced nights of babysitting and having to listen to Curly spew on about nothing. "He's still a fucking _kid_."

It made Angel snort. But he didn't find it funny. The boys in their neighborhood were considered men when they were still children. Tim had been the prime example. He had been jumped in at twelve, making his rounds around Tulsa by thirteen, and locked up at fourteen (not counting the baby juvenile systems they put him in). And he stepped over at sixteen.

They never had a stable father figure in their lives, and their Ma had been mentally unstable since Abuela's death. They took on the responsibility of raising the three of them, and essentially shaping Tim and Curly into "men". Though what they really wanted was a ruthless and coldblooded being with no feelings. With nothing to hinder them, nothing like feelings and emotional attachments.

"Don't give me that shit." Angel spat harshly. His eyes cutting to Tim's and Tim matching the gaze. It was undeniable. They were both alpha dogs. Tim never liked authority and being told how he should handle things. Nothing irked him more than someone dictating his life. And especially when someone told him what to do with his kid brother.

"He'll tag that joint a few blocks over _and_ _that's it_. I don't wanna hear about y'all getting him to hustle something over for tu viejos cabrones. He's my mano and I'll handle him."

"I bet I have an idea on how you wanted to spend it." Jimmy teases. "I just wished they'd get the fuck out already."

Jimmy was Curly's best friend. He had moved in a few houses over when Curly had been around four years old. He was half-Chicano, half-Italian, small with greasy hair. His Ma was a workaholic and the neighborhood tramp. Jimmy's old man was a deadbeat. He never met him, and he booked it the minute he knew that Jimmy's Ma was pregnant. She was sixteen years old when she met him and his dazzling words convinced her to let him in her panties. The idea of having a half-chicano baby scared the hell out of him, so he made it clear that he didn't want to take any part.

Curly and Jimmy had grew up together and many of his fondest memories held Jimmy in them. From getting their asses beat a church as kids, to getting jumped in at the same time, and Curly kicking anyone's ass who teased Jimmy because his mom screwed for money. Jimmy knew everything about Curly, probably more than Tim would know and he trusted him with his life.

"No need to rush or nothing." Raul scoffed from the backseat.

Curly inhaled a sharp breath before sharing a sharp look with Jimmy. Raul Rodriguez wasn't the average gang banger. He was cold and sadistic as fuck but Curly's tios liked him. At times it seemed like his head wasn't in the right space. He'd laugh at crude things and say random things that were so strange your skin would craw. He was one of the few members of the Shepard Gang that Curly kept his distance from. There had been a nagging feeling that Raul would bring some sort of darkness.

"Alright, they're gone." Jimmy muttered while stubbing his cigarette out.

"Wait," Curly said lowly, eyes squinting to watch the owner of the liquor store lock up and cross the street. His name was Benny. He was a middle-aged, overweight Irish store owner who didn't care much for Chicanos and he never hid the fact from them. A scoff on his face as he mumbled derogatory slurs and checking their pockets just for the hell of it.

"Alright, vamos."

Curly grabbed the bag of spray paint and slung it over his shoulder, crossing the street and making his way towards the back of the liquor store. He stood back and scaled the existing Tiber Street tag. An ugly and sloppy design that must have been rushed. He set the bag down and reached for the gold can, shaking it before he sprayed it onto the wall.


End file.
